


The Wildest and Bloodiest is Over, and All is Peace

by FugalGear



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Jim Moriarty - Freeform, M/M, Natural Disaster, War, monsoons, sandstorms, sebastian moran - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-02
Updated: 2012-12-02
Packaged: 2017-11-20 02:48:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/580450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FugalGear/pseuds/FugalGear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Natural disasters don't scare Sebastian Moran. Not even the most lethal one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Wildest and Bloodiest is Over, and All is Peace

Sebastian was not frightened by natural disasters. Patience and resourcefulness were necessary tools in weathering any storm, and Sebastian was a man adapted to any situation. 

There was the sandstorm in Kabul. Dirt and sand permeated the air in a thick coating, whipping around in the dry, angry gust of wind. It eroded the stone buildings of the natives and wore away at the resolve of the soldiers. He despised the sand, was sick and tired of it.

"There's sand everywhere in this fuckin' place!" he had grumbled to Private McDonald. The fellow soldier nodded sympathetically as he watched Sebastan clean out the grime from his gun. It was on their clothes and in their eyelashes, and the storm whistled around their barracks.  
"Didn't know the desert had sand, didja?" McDonald quipped suddenly, looking smugly clever. Sebastian returned the stock to his rifle with a click, kicking at McDonald's leg as he stood up. The man grasped his shin with a surprised noise, shooting off some choice words suggesting that Sebastian was less than prepared, that he wasn't cut out for the soldiering life.

Sebastian knew otherwise, of course. War had structure, despite all of it's chaos. He had his place in the fray, a job to do, orders to follow. War gave him purpose.

But he fucking hated sand. Sebastian looked back at the private with a scowl. Bastard.

x x x

There was a monsoon in India. Sebastian thought he was acclimated to rain, but the dreary London streets were nothing compared to the sheer amount of flooding.

The sniper, gone AWOL, packed up his rucksack and followed the villagers to higher ground. His clothes were saturated completely by the relentless downpour. The excessive rain and high wind speeds had caused landslides as well. Almost all of their food had been compromised in one was or another, and there was no way they would find any game to hunt. He cursed himself for relocating to such a remote part of the jungle.

"These locals better know what they're god damn doing," griped the former sniper, even though they were obviously capable of handling the situation.

After a few weeks, things were looking up. The flooding has subsided and villagers busied themselves with rebuilding their homes. Everything was destroyed, the villagers' hard work cast aside, their lives erased. Sebastian helped a widowed woman who had her infant son to worry about. Surviving the monsoon had been a monstrous task by any survivalist's standards. 

x x x

When Sebastian shook hands with James Moriarty, he was fearless. He saw the way the man's eyes brewed, like an oncoming storm. Twisters shifted uneasily behind his pupils. He seemed to smell of petrichor, to radiate something sinister. A natural disaster, sands eager to spread and infest, lighting poised to strike, innocuous snow falling soundly until it consumed you in entirety. Sebastian understood completely what he was getting himself into, even if he wasn't prepared for it, but just like Afghanistan and India, he would adapt. Jim was a force meant to destroy.

Natural disasters didn't frighten him in the least.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from a Walt Whitman poem. Hope you enjoyed. c:


End file.
